


La Petite Mort

by duckiesinaline



Series: La Petite Mort [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Unity, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, YOLO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:34:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2491298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckiesinaline/pseuds/duckiesinaline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He let the blade retract as his hand finally settled, palm flat and fingers spread, upon the man’s vulnerable belly - saw how the dark eyes were focused unblinkingly upon that too-familiar pose. From the way the muscles had stilled beneath his touch, moving not even for breath, no doubt the Assassin was dwelling upon all the victims that the blade had claimed, in just that same, almost companionable gesture.</p><p>“Finally have your full and undivided attention, do I?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Petite Mort

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based in DragonWarden's [Finding Brotherhood](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2415395/chapters/5343089) universe.

By now, the latest bout of uproarious laughter barely turned a head in the room. Even the bartender - who had initially looked pained by his choice of whether to kick out the rabble and lose their steady orders, or to lose the patronage of steadier customers - hardly even winced.

Arno didn't so much as turn the wine set before him, having given up on appearances long ago.

They had needed information from the streets rather than the more refined halls of the elite this time, and so the obvious choice had been for Michel to find it. Arno had not argued, had thought it was the most logical choice, had even thought that he might observe and learn how to charm and seduce the common man as he already knew for the noble.

He had, instead, learned that he detested just how well Michel fit right in.

The Assassin had simply walked up to the group of mill workers in the corner with his weight back on his heels, hands loose at his sides, an easy tip of his head and a few words, and suddenly one of the men was shoving an empty chair out for him with a foot. Before the first round of drinks was even finished, Michel had an elbow braced casually against the table while the others leaned in, some tall tale that had begun with conspiratorial tones concluding in brays of laughter and a much more generous call of another drink for their new friend. By the third round, the two waiting girls had learned to stop asking Arno for further orders, and he had stopped pretending that his attention was anywhere else but upon that table around which men sat shoulder-to-shoulder and knee-to-knee, clinking mugs or glasses of cheap wine and beer, trading banter and laughter with every breath.

As the night drew long and Michel finally pushed himself to his feet, Arno stood too. He dropped coins blindly upon the table as he watched his fellow Assassin nod with a half-wave in farewell before walking out on the careful steps of the not-quite drunk.

Arno let him get as far as two blocks before reaching out of the alley he had been waiting in and unceremoniously dragging the man in by the necktie.

In hindsight, probably not the brightest thing, ambushing a half-drunk Assassin.

There was a sudden flurry of movements and a single panicked moment when Arno thought he might have to seriously hurt Michel before the Assassin abruptly froze and blinked. "Arno?"

He released his pent-up breath sharply through his nose. "Who else?" he hissed, letting go of the arm and the wrist he had trapped.

Michel grumbled as he shook out the two limbs, retracting his hidden blade with an absent flick of his wrist. "I thought you were going to wait back at our room."

Arno stared. "And based on that, you allowed yourself to be waylaid? I could have been a cutpurse!"

The man sent him a long-suffering look and tugged his necktie straight while stepping right back out onto the street. "If you had been, then you would have just cut my purse and been done with it. Do I look like someone worth waylaying?"

Arno grit his teeth as he was forced to follow on the man's heels. "And what if I had been a Templar instead?"

Michel sighed. "Then you would have just cut my throat and, again, been done with it. But isn't that what we were trying to find tonight, Templars that are suspiciously not around? Listen … "

Arno tried, he really did. But his mind was not on the happenings around the city, the urban myths and rumors that the common laborers had begun to circulate amongst themselves. It was instead on how open and relaxed Michel had looked amongst those strangers, how readily he had smiled and laughed ... something that had taken him months to _earn_ after their disastrous beginnings.

As soon as they stepped through the door of the cramped room they had rented, Arno couldn't wait any longer and promptly crowded Michel against the nearest wall after a kick sent the door slamming closed again.

"Fuck, Arno, what's gotten into - " The rest of the words were lost to a muffled grunt of surprise as Arno sealed his lips over Michel's.

He ignored the scratch of the short beard, chasing after the taste of cheap alcohol with his tongue. He pressed against the dense, compact body; felt a heartbeat's worth of resistance testing his resolution before it yielded, allowing itself to be molded between his own leaner form and the boards behind. He dug gloved fingertips into the hard muscle over the hips, stretched the kiss until his lungs screamed, and then clung for a bare moment longer before there was a squirm of protest against him and he finally broke with a gasp, head spinning.

Michel's eyes were unfocused, dilated and aimed vaguely over Arno's head. But still, after a few hard breaths, he had the wherewithal to give a distant, lopsided smirk. "You're like a cat … " he accused hazily. "Have to rub yourself all over your - "

Arno growled, took the man again by that ridiculous black string of a necktie, and hauled him over to one of the two narrow beds.

The daft man was laughing as he was tripped onto its thin bedding, interrupted only by the impact, legs dangling over its edge. He gave a half-hearted squirm when Arno climbed atop him, but promptly stopped, grinning, as the French-Austrian drew his hands up to pin them over his head. "Usually you have more to say."

"And usually you have less," Arno retorted, transferring his grips to one hand, freeing the other to pick at all the fastenings and layers down his fellow Assassin's front. It was usually something he would play and tease with, but today he was the impatient one, and barely restrained the urge to take a knife to a particularly stubborn buckle.

"C'mon," Michel mumbled, eyes half-lidded, "quote those fancy books at me like you always like to do … "

Arno paused, nonplussed, as he eyed his companion. Was Michel falling _asleep_? Jaw tightening, he shifted his seat, deliberately lining himself up - and ground down, _hard_.

Michel all but leaped off the bed with a half-strangled curse.

Arno gasped out a laugh of his own at the thrill and heat that zipped up his spine; couldn't quite keep from rolling his hips a second, gentler time into the hardening length beneath him. Felt something like gratification as he saw the new flush that was blooming across Michel's face even as the alcohol's grip receded, and the Assassin beneath him groaned, arching up against him.

Suddenly, he couldn't wait anymore, and it was just a casual thought that released the hidden blade, that had it slicing across thread and cloth with rapid precision; buttons picked off like grapes, rattling across the floorboards, fabric gaping loose in their wake.

Michel jerked beneath him, eyes wide. "Arno!" he growled, outraged. "It's not like I _own_ more than a spare or two, much less carry - "

Arno rolled his eyes. "Truly? I am going to be fucking you within an inch of your life, and that is what you're concerned with?"

Even Michel's practical side wavered in the face of the unexpectedly crude language from a normally refined palate. "I'm not so handy with - " he began uncertainly ... before he was abruptly sucking a breath in loudly through his teeth.

Arno smiled, slow and vindictive. He had scraped the edge of Michel's shirt up amongst the scraps of outerwear, and now trailed the cool flat of his blade over a torso sculpted by years of labor and then further refined by Assassin training. He let the blade retract as his hand finally settled, palm flat and fingers spread, upon the man's vulnerable belly - saw how the dark eyes were focused unblinkingly upon that too-familiar pose. From the way the muscles had stilled beneath his touch, moving not even for breath, no doubt the Assassin was dwelling upon all the victims that the blade had claimed, in just that same, seemingly companionable gesture.

"Finally have your full and undivided attention, do I?"

Michel's abdomen hollowed beneath his hand with a huff of strained amusement, but the eyes flicked bravely up to meet his even as the man spurred, "Just. Like. A. Cat."

Arno's eyes narrowed.

He wrapped one end of the worn red scarf around his free hand and yanked it out from beneath the Assassin's body. Looped it through the headboard before Michel began catching on, and Arno had to suddenly scoot his seat forward, knees tight beneath the man's shoulders, just before the man's buck could throw him off. He settled his weight down, hearing the grunt of air forced from the body beneath him, and took the momentary chance to wrap the ends rapidly around Michel's wrists while the man was distracted. A simple knot that that no Assassin wouldn't be able to get out of in just a few breaths - particularly one that still possessed his hidden blade - but still solid enough if Michel's sudden jerk and the headboard's creak was any indication.

Satisfied, Arno slowly slithered back down the man's body, dark eyes following him. Gave a not-so-subtle reminder of what the real objective was when he passed, stroking the heel of a hand over the growing hardness beneath him, smiling tightly when he traced the flex of muscles, felt the hips trying to rise, and heard the half-bitten off groan. He unsheathed a smaller weapon because this next bit required more dexterity than the bracer-mounted blade would be able to give him, and slid the knife between skin and trousers' edge.

"Fuck, Arno, for God's sake - " Michel exploded - and then bit his tongue hastily against the rest of his imprecations when Arno turned the knife fluidly; tender skin dimpling under the keen edge.

"Michel Antoine Bondois," Arno murmured, smoothing a hand over the man's bared flank, "Do you trust me?"

There was a long enough pause in which something began to clench inside him, when his hand stilled upon heated skin and his grip faltered upon the knife.

"Yes," the answer came on a long exhale, in which all the tension that he had not noticed drained away along with the air.

Arno blinked, swallowed, and felt his face tighten in a small, relieved smile. Then he adjusted his grip upon the knife and flicked the blade sideways.

In short, neat strokes, he stripped the cloth away. Felt the occasional shiver beneath him at the cool kiss of metal, but when all was bared, Michel still stood proud and thick, unwilted by the experience. When Arno sheathed the knife and reached out to run the worn, soft leather of his gloved thumb up the underside of the shaft, the twitch and hiss it elicited was, perhaps, a sign of just the opposite.

Arno was suddenly, exquisitely aware of just how hot and chafing it was under his own multiple layers.

The gloves and coat were easy to shed, though he was too impatient for the rest after that. And, thankfully, they were on his bed, and his bag - ever packed, ever ready in case they had to make a quick exit - was right at its foot with the oil exactly where he expected it.

Michel was silent, gaze fixed almost unblinkingly upon him. Arno nearly fumbled the little bottle when he realized that the man was mission-quiet, mission-focused - and it was an unexpectedly heady sensation, to think that this total, absolute attention might be what their targets felt, what prey felt, just before the man struck.

Mouth suddenly dry, he reached out and stroked a hand up one thigh, thumb spread so that it pressed just inside the crease at the top. A shudder, and that unwavering stare closed as the man tilted his head back with a short exhale.

Arno's fingertips tingled as if he had forgotten to breathe; was barely aware as he surged up, covering the man's body with his own. Spread the legs upon his own thighs amidst the tatters of cloth and pressed his lips to that vulnerable pulse-point, trustingly bared. Felt the clench of muscles beneath him and heard the rattle of the headboard - a single, sharp staccato - and spilled the oil over fingers and bed covers alike, fumbling with it one-handed while the other shifted his own clothes aside, and all that vaunted training in two-handed dexterity had taken a flying leap of faith out the window if his clumsiness was any indication.

Arno flattened his tongue against sweat-salty skin, tasting the vibrations when his finger dipped between them and teased a low sound from the throat his lips were pressed against. His own breath shivered out of him on a groan when he circled the tight entrance, wetting it, before finally slipping inside with a gentle push - and it was all soft heat and silky pressure, and his cock leaped painfully to attention.

"Michel … " he moaned, warned, could hardly tell what he meant as he stroked inside, could hardly bear to withdraw though it was but a finger, and soon, a pair.

He knew that hitch of breath, that wince that was not a wince, and he froze. But with that uncanny sixth sense that they had eventually developed for each other's spaces and movements, a booted foot kicked him in the back and he jerked upright, affronted, even as Michel rasped crossly, "'m not one of your fainting ladies," and highlighted said fact with a deliberate stretch.

Arno was suddenly reminded of what lay beneath him as stark lines of dense muscle sprang into relief; the shambles he had made of the man's clothes, spread across bed and skin. The arms strung high, a shock of crimson around their wrists. He reached out, mesmerized, to stroke a hand over the play of muscle over the ribs -

"First time I've seen you hesitate when you have a clear target."

Arno huffed, unable to quell a reflexive irritation, but it was a mere ghost of their former vitriol. "Merely savoring, not hesitating," he retorted without heat, and unceremoniously slid a third finger inside the tight clutch of Michel's body.

He savored the sight of the man's head thrown back, mouth fallen open around a sound that died stillborn in his throat. Savored the the jerk and gasp that followed when his fingers finally struck true. Savored the slow crumble of control he had momentarily ceded, and the indomitable Michel - who mowed down his opponents as easily and thoughtlessly as he might a sapling forest, yet still fretted over a sister and over clothes he could not mend - arched and _whined_.

Arno yanked his fingers out to grasp himself with a sharp breath; partly to coat himself with the oil, mostly to keep himself from coming from the sound alone. "Fuck," he managed weakly, taking brief refuge in the language Michel knew best, before he quickly lined himself up and with a deep breath to brace himself, pressed in.

The body beneath him immediately bowed at the intrusion; whether to welcome or to escape, Arno did not know and did not care. He sank inside in one long, luxurious stroke that made him curl his toes and blink starbursts from his vision. He pushed until his hips were tucked tight against Michel's, and even then, he rolled them hard against the man, dragging a groan from them both, trying to bury himself just a little further into the heat and pressure.

A soft _snickt_ of metal, and suddenly, hands were buried in his hair and a thick leather bracer was scratching over his back and a voice snarled in a timber that seemed to settle straight into his groin, _"Move_."

Arno jerked back reflexively before slamming inside again, and he didn't know which was better - the sweet, slick slide of movement or the grip of Michel's body when he was finally, fully sheathed.

He had little choice either way as instinct took over. He was already close, could feel it in the tension coiling low in his belly; hoped that he could hold out longer even as he was desperate to reach the end. His rhythm stuttered as he tried to take conscious control of it again; slid one arm beneath Michel's waist and the other behind his shoulder, clutching that compact, powerful body close as he ground back inside. The man's legs tightened around his hips, boot heels digging into his lower back, and he gave another helpless buck.

A breathless profanity in his ear. Then his name; louder, sharper. And it tugged at something indefinable, made him give one more frantic thrust before he froze - not quite willing to give this up yet.

This clean scent of exertion untainted by the metallic tang of blood; the slick, velvet heat in which he'd buried himself. This wrap of limbs around him, but not in threat - possessive and strangely comforting all at once, even the demanding tug upon his hair. The puffs of warm breath against his neck, the bellows of the rib cage beneath him, and suddenly he regretted not taking the time to disrobe completely, to feel skin pressed all along his length. He stroked a hand down a naked hip, let it drift between them, brushing knuckles along the thick shaft lying neglected upon Michel's belly.

"Shhh … " he soothed at the jerk, the dig of fingers in his shoulder, his own breath shivering out of him as he wrapped his hand around Michel and gave a single, gentle stroke.

The man tensed, twisted vaguely, as if making an aborted attempt to escape the touch; made Arno's head spin with the effort to not finish right then and there inside the sudden grip of the body. The Assassin arched into the next stroke with a needy sound, and then Arno's hand was squeezing tight, because he wanted to hear Michel first; suddenly, desperately craved it. And he couldn't hold out much longer, not with the man open and pliant like this beneath him …

One, two tugs. The drag of his thumb up the thick vein before it pressed, firm, just beneath the tip. And suddenly Michel was bucking up against him with a raw cry, heat spilling wet and viscous between them -

Arno did not know what sounds he himself made. Knew only that the world was incandescent for one long moment, that it was almost painful to finally let go, to lose all that he had built up and held onto so desperately for this short time. Knew that it did not matter when he let his weight fall, awareness flickering and guttering like an unshielded candle; that Michel would not mind.

Sensations came back afterward in disjointed flares. The tickle of his hair, fallen from its tie, spread across cheek and shoulders; the rasp of a breath against his neck, the prickle of a beard against the same. The dig of a buckle into his hip, and if it was distracting to him, it must be uncomfortable for Michel, and when he shifted to relieve them of it, was reminded starkly of the heat he was still buried in.

Fingers scraped across the back of his shoulder before falling away as he sat up, swaying and blinking. Arno's gaze was first caught by the bright splashes of red pooling around Michel's wrists - breath catching in his throat before he blinked again and realized, remembered, the cut ends of the sash, and breathed out - then wandered over the thick nap of hair that had been scraped into crazed spikes by sweat, the eyes beneath them merely somnolent slits as breath calmed and skin cooled. They slid toward him when he braced himself over the man upon one hand, the other reaching down to run the edge of a palm over the hollow of a bearded cheek.

"Not one of your ladies to woo," Michel mumbled, voice thick and sated, and Arno hoarded the sound jealously.

"Yes, I know, you make it very hard to forget, you bastard," Arno snorted, dipping down to steal a kiss.


End file.
